The Curse of Chalion (World of the Five Gods, #1)

by Lois McMaster Bujold

“Please excuse Betriz, Ser dy Ferrej. The fault was mine. Where I led, she had no choice but to follow.” His brow twitched, and he gave her a little bow. “Then you might meditate, Royesse, on what honor a captain can claim, who drags his followers into an error when he knows he will himself escape the punishment.”

I’m not sure poor Valenda has posts enough to occupy you. You’ve been a courtier—a captain—a castle warder—a courier—” “I haven’t been a courtier since before Roya Ias died, my lady. As a captain…I helped lose the battle of Dalus.” And rotted for nearly a year in the dungeons of the royacy of Brajar, thereafter. “As a castle warder, well, we lost the siege. As a courier, I was nearly hanged as a spy. Twice.” He brooded. And three times put to the torture in violation of parley. “Now…now, well, I know how to row boats. And five ways of preparing a dish of rats.”

The Order of the Bastard, by the logic of its theology, classified unwanted births among the things-out-of-season that were the god’s mandate: including bastards—naturally—and children bereft of parents untimely young. The Temple’s foundling hospitals and orphanages were one of the order’s main concerns. In all, Cazaril thought that a god who was supposed to command a legion of demons ought to have an easier time shaking out donations for his good works.

a skilled soldier kills your enemies, but a skilled duelist kills your allies. I leave you to guess which a wise commander prefers to have in his camp.”

“I really did think Betriz would be a good influence,” dy Ferrej added. “It seems to have worked the other way around.” “Are you accusing my granddaughter of corrupting your daughter?” the Provincara inquired wryly. “Say, inspiring, rather,” dy Ferrej said, with a glum shrug. “Terrifying, that. I wonder…I wonder if we should part them?”

As for keeping the books of her chamber—why, after running a fortress, it should be child’s play for you. What say you, dear Cazaril?” The vision was at once enticing and appalling. “Couldn’t you give me a fortress under siege, instead?”

“I trust I am not a complete lout. But if you desire a man to tell you comfortable lies about your prowess, and so fetter any hope of true excellence, I’m sure you may find one anywhere. Not all prisons are made of iron bars. Some are made of feather beds. Royesse.”

“And right or wrong, what I also saw was that you made an enemy, and left him alive behind you. Great charity. Bad tactics.”

he was trying to inquire in this worried and tongue-tumbled fashion if Cazaril had been raped. Cazaril’s lips twisted in sympathy. “You are confusing the Roknari fleets with those of Darthaca, I think. I’m afraid those legends represent wishful thinking on someone’s part. The Roknari heresy of the four gods makes a crime of the sort of odd loves the Bastard rules, here.

When the Roknari had first invaded from the sea, they had overrun most of Chalion, Ibra, and Brajar in their first violent burst, even past Cardegoss, to the very feet of the southern mountain ranges. Darthaca itself had been threatened by their advance parties. But from the ashes of the weak Old Kingdoms and the harsh cradle of the hills new men had emerged, fighting for generations to regain what had been lost in those first few years.

Now in her mid-thirties, her earlier prettiness was fading and worn.

More sumptuous meals cascaded down the ensuing days, till Cazaril, instead of thinking Roya Orico sadly run to fat, began to marvel that the man could still walk.

it’s peace, not war, that makes wealth for a country. War just transfers possession of the residue from the weaker to the stronger. Worse, what is bought with blood is sold for coin, and then stolen back again.”

“Conquest isn’t the only way to unite peoples,” Betriz pointed out. “There’s marriage.” “Yes, but no one can marry three royacies and five princedoms,” Iselle said, wrinkling her nose. “Not all at once, anyway.”

“It’s true I do not like Lord Dondo. He smells odd, and his hands are always hot and sweaty.” Betriz added, with a grimace of distaste, “Yes, and he’s always touching one with them. Ugh!”

I do like a man with a malleable memory, and yet…I still feel you need more heat.

He returned them firmly to his knees, and said with undeceptive mildness, “Save your treasure, my lord, to buy yourself a man with a lower price. I’m sure you can find one.”

“This is a very unusual collection.” “Yes, my lord.” “How unusual?” “Very unusual.” “Can you tell me more?” “I beg you will not ask me more, my lord.” “Why not?” “Because I do not wish to lie to you.” “Why not?” Everyone else does.

“Do you understand what it means to be a saint?” Cazaril cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You must be very virtuous, I suppose.” “No, in fact. One need not be good. Or even nice.” Umegat looked wry of a sudden. “Grant you, once one experiences…what one experiences, one’s tastes change. Material ambition seems immaterial. Greed, pride, vanity, wrath, just grow too dull to bother with.”

“One grows more accustomed with use. The first time I hosted a miracle I wasn’t too happy either, and I’m in the trade, so to speak. My personal recommendation to you, tonight, is to get pie-eyed drunk and go to sleep.”

They must be burned…well, alive is not quite the right term. Very ugly scene, especially if the relatives don’t understand, because, of course, being your body, it screams in your voice…. It would not, in the event, be your problem, of course, you would be, um, elsewhere by then, but it might save, hm, others some painful troubles, if you make sure you always have someone by you who would understand the necessity of burning your body before sunset…” Mendenal trailed off apologetically.

“I shall add that to Rojeras’s theory of the demon growing itself a new body in my tumor and gnawing its way out, should I ever again be in danger of getting a night’s sleep.

Attempting death magic is a crime of intent, of conspiracy. Successful death magic is not death magic at all, but a miracle of justice, and cannot be a crime, because it is the hand of the god that carries off the victim—victims—I mean, it’s not as if the roya can send his officers to arrest the Bastard, eh?”

“and you can’t expect us to get all squeamish just because you’re…inhabited. I mean…we’re expected to share our bodies someday. Doesn’t make us horrible, does it?” She hesitated at where this metaphor was taking her.

You must tell me all the right phrases, so I do not sound like an ignorant girl.” “I’ll do my best, but am no lawyer, Iselle.” She shrugged. “If we succeed, I will have swords to back my words. And if we do not, no legal niceties will make them stand. Let them be plain and clear. Begin…”

Well, who wants to die in bed?” “You did, you always said. Of extreme old age, in bed, with somebody’s wife.” “Mine, by preference,”

“Lady, do you see anything odd about me?” “I see only with my eyes, now. I’ve been blind for years, you see. You see?” Her emphasis made her meaning very plain, Cazaril thought. “Yes.”

“I tried to tell her, once. She decided I was truly mad. It’s not a bad life, being mad, you know. It has its advantages. You don’t have to make any decisions. What to eat, what to wear, where to go…who lives, who dies…You can try it yourself, if you like. Just tell the truth. Tell people you are pregnant with a demon and a ghost, and you have a tumor that talks vilely to you, and the gods guard your steps, and see what happens next.”

“The gods are on our side, right enough. Can we fail?” Cazaril snorted bitterly. “Yes.”

For her fidelity he could return her only grief; his bier would be too hard and narrow to offer as a wedding bed.

In desperation, anything becomes possible.” “That’s true. Or at least, people stop arguing with you about what’s possible and what’s not.”

Dy Jironal thought of it. At Teidez’s interment, he never missed a chance to pass some little comment on Iselle to any lord or provincar in earshot. If she wept, wasn’t it too extravagant; if she laughed, how odd that she should do so at her brother’s funeral; if she spoke, he whispered that she was frenetic; if she fell silent, wasn’t she grown strangely gloomy? And you could just watch men begin to see what he told them they were seeing, whether it was there or not. Toward the end of his visit there, he even said such things in her hearing, to see if he could frighten and enrage her, and then accuse her of becoming an unbalanced virago. And he circulated outright lies, as well.

That the new Heiress was seen by everyone as wise and good, and a great relief and hope after the disasters of Orico’s reign.” Dy Baocia snorted. “Which, as they are concomitantly the disasters of dy Jironal’s reign, works out to an unintended insult. Or was it unintended?”

not…I have not the words for what I saw. Talking about it is like trying to weave a box of shadows in which to carry water.”

“People compliment birds for being great builders, but really, these two seem terribly clumsy. Perhaps they are young birds, and this is their first try. Persistent, though. Although I suppose if I was to attempt to build a hut using only my mouth, I would do no better.

if you must scribble paeans to her body parts, pick lips. Lips are more romantic than noses.” “Why?” asked Cazaril. “Isn’t every part of her an amazement?” “Yes, but we kiss lips. We don’t kiss noses. Normally. Men write poems to the objects of our desire in order to lure them closer.” “How practical. In that case, you’d think men would write more poems to ladies’ private parts.” “The ladies would hit us. Lips are a safe compromise, being as it were a stand-in or stepping-stone to the greater mysteries.”

to sacrifice this maiden to reward my gray hairs is a repugnant thing!” He did not let go of Betriz’s hand. “We just got rid of your gray hairs,” pointed out Iselle. She looked him over judiciously. “It’s a vast improvement, I have to agree.”

“I’m not sacrificing her to you as a reward for your loyalty. I’m bestowing you on her as a reward for her loyalty. So there.”

“It’s a fine conceit, “ said Umegat. “The author follows a group of travelers to a pilgrimage shrine, and has each one tell his or her tale in turn. Very, ah, holy.” “Actually, my lord,” the dedicat whispered, “some of them are very lewd.”